Wherein Crowley Goes On Holiday
by fidefortitude
Summary: In short, Sam doesn't die completing the trials (and thus completes them), which leaves a rather human Crowley left at a rather loose end. Naturally, for anyone left with some spare time and a newfound humanity, the response that should inevitably follow is going on holiday and getting absolutely plastered.
1. In Which Crowley Falls Over

After the gates of Hell were well and truly shut, there had been a tiny pause, a little hiatus, between the reality of his new predicament and his realisation of it. While around him, he could hear yells of shock and fear, and he could sense flashes of light and explosion through the tinted, leaded windows of the church, he couldn't focus on that, couldn't even think about it. He felt the air on his face, stinging the bruises and cuts left from that tussle (well, being helplessly beaten up, really) with Abaddon; he could sense a thousand thousand nerve endings, suddenly attuned to his being in a way it had never been before. He could no longer see the flow and ebb of power, of grace and energy; the colours of Sam Winchester's soul in front of him had dulled into nothing, leaving just the Moose's body moving around with no indication of the soul-being beneath. Where his senses had been dulled to the supernatural, however, he had a far clearer view of everything else; as the Moose staggered past him in a sense of shock he couldn't really process yet for any meaning, he was afforded a view of the man in what he termed half-sarcastically as Technicolour- where he had previously had to squint past his soul to see the face of Sam Winchester, he could now see just how _much_ the hunter needed a haircut, and perhaps a few hours of sleep judging by the rings under his eyes.

He stared at it all in this little pause in time, sensing everything he had never done before.

And then he _felt_.

He pulled in a horrified gasp of air to his burning lungs as his mind began to roil with emotions he hadn't felt with such clarity for centuries. His stomach was churning with guilt and fear and hunger, and he retched, leaning over as far as possible as he could in his chained position as he coughed and tried to expel something, anything from his empty stomach. And all the while, his mind was awash with a conscience, clouding his before utterly unemotional thought process- a tiny little voice in his head, screaming _nonononono_ at himself, at the Winchesters, at his actions and his newfound humanity and everything he had lost.

So yeah, his first steps into that brave new world of humanity hadn't been the most glamorous of his career.

And when he had finally gathered enough of himself together that he had paid attention to the outside world and seen the Winchesters on the ground at the entrance to the church; well, seeing two hunters that he had only ever known to be furiously angry and hostile embracing each other on the ground was a little bit jarring. Not to mention the fact he could hear the rattling gasps of Moose Winchester: he wasn't a doctor, but he didn't need to be to know that sound was distinctly _not good_.

He had looked past them then, to the skies they were staring up at- and he couldn't help but feel a wrench of shock at the sight he was given. Through inky black skies, and through grey, shadowy clouds covering the stars, golden shapes fell. At first, his instinct had been a meteor shower- but meteors don't have wings.

He had been so taken with the sight of fallen angels then, he hadn't even noticed the older Winchester bundling the younger into the backseat of the Impala and sprinting to the driver's seat- he didn't even notice at all until he heard a screech of rubber and the spitting of gravel being forced backwards by the tyres.

As he looked in shock at the retreating figure of the Impala and the angels' golden wings burning in the atmosphere, his mind screaming with a thousand emotions at once, a single word emerged into his mind, took shape in his strained vocal chords.

"_Fuck!_" He yelled, suddenly savagely angry, yanking at his chains as he felt a new wash of anger and fear and desperate loneliness.

Okay, so his first steps into the brave new world of humanity hadn't so much been glamorous as an utter train wreck.

Hours passed and he had whiled them away by debating precisely how any of the newly fallen angels would kill him upon discovering him- how when Dean or Sam came back, they would make good on their promise to take advantage of his newfound humanity and put a pellet of lead through his skull.

He partly debated over how the body he had previously just been possessing was now utterly his- he wasn't overly sure how to deal with that. He sort of lamented not picking a meatsuit with more of a lifespan.

But mostly, he promised himself that if he ever got out of this without ending up back in the shut-down hell as a soul to newly torture (which was a million to one), he was going on a _bloody holiday_. He made a promise he knew could never happen with a sort of gallows humour he had never really had since the 1600s; he'd get his money out of all those offshore accounts he had stored finances in over the years, he'd go everywhere with good scotch and fine restaurants and a fair culture. Hell, he'd take the Winchesters and their pet angel along; it would be funny to take them to Vegas, maybe Disneyland. He entertained the notion of the culturally clueless Castiel amongst all the scantily clad women in Vegas; a pained smile flitted across his expression before disappearing again. His newly found emotions reared their head again- a desperate need for love and company washed over him, and he_ really _felt disgusted at himself for that particular emotional urge.

Just before the trial had been completed, he had voiced this particular need for love to a particular hunter; as much as he had tried to deny it had happened afterwards, denying it doesn't really work when you're trying to deny something that happened seconds ago in front of the guy you're denying it to.

The hours went on. And then, a roar of engines. He shut his eyes, tried to control his instincts and emotions to little success. Then he opened them and got ready for- well, for going back to Hell.

The Impala pulled up. A single click then slam of the doors- only one person coming to seal his fate. He took a mental coin-flip. Squirrel. He twisted his head behind him to the doors caught a glance of short hair and bowlegs in the corner of his eye. Bingo.

Quick steps coming up behind him. Soft tapping of rubber sole against stone flags. He heard the elder brother of the deadly hunting duo come up to his side- slowly, tiredly, he raised his head to meet the Winchester's gaze. The expression he was met with was one he had never seen before on Dean's face- fear. Bleak eyes, a haunted look on the hunter's face- he would have started with a joke on Dean looking how he felt, but it was so close to the mark that he couldn't get it out.

Besides, the likelihood his execution would get moved forwards to a few seconds after that remark was pretty high. He settled for the question which made most sense accompanied with his knowledge of the previous few hours.

"Where's Sam?" He managed, his throat hoarse.

Dean glowered. "None of your damn business, Crowley."

"Then what are you making my business?" He said, too tired from the day's events and his newfound humanity to even contest the lack of information surrounding the younger Winchester brother. Dean looked the tiniest bit surprised by this- to be honest, he was himself a little. It wasn't his typical style to let things lie.

Dean regained his composure a second later, face hardening. Crowley couldn't even retain enough control over himself not to wince- he knew what was coming now. Exit stage Crowley, this time for a more permanent exit from the Earth. He didn't close his eyes; he felt he had to retain that much dignity. He stared down Dean Winchester, instead, with a tired expression. He was chained to a chair, he was cut and bruised all over, he was pretty damn sure he had broken a rib when Abaddon had kicked him on the ground, and his face around his mouth was caked in dried blood from where Sam had finished off the process of curing him. But he was Crowley; he was human and he was weak and he was restrained, but he was still Crowley and he was going to face his sentence face-on.

It didn't happen.

Dean jammed his hand into his pocket, retrieved a few keys. He stepped forward carefully over the devil's trap and unlocked the padlock on Crowley's neck- iron bands of metal clattered to the ground. He could barely conceal his shock as he twisted his now-free neck around further, trying to observe what Dean was doing. The hunter crossed to the front, roughly grabbing a manacle and jamming a tiny key into it. Crowley pulled away from Dean's hands at that point (the hunter flinching back reflexively) to pull off the steel handcuffs himself, before dropping them roughly to the ground. Metal clacked against stone in the silent church; Dean stepped back across the devil's trap, observing Crowley closely.

Slowly, agonisingly slowly, Crowley forced his legs to pull himself up- and he had never remembered standing being this hard, but he wanted to retain the little dignity he had left and actually stand up for himself.

He fell over.

"Jesus buggering-" He gasped on the floor, curling up in a ball on the stone flags as he fell onto his most likely fractured rib. Dean had stepped back smoothly from the falling ex-demon. Crowley felt like asking whether Dean had ever participated in a trust fall, because he really didn't seem to understand the basics of catching people. He would have asked it, too, if he hadn't been so busy trying to breathe.

That was when he noticed he was lying halfway across the devil's trap.

"Hm."

Above him, he could hear the squirrel humming out a response to this particular revelation. Crowley finally got his breath back.

"Done staring, or are we going to stretch the 'watching Crowley suffer' period out a little longer?" He gasped out, propping himself onto an elbow and gingerly probing the painful area underneath his jacket. Above him, silence. Crowley looked up to an intimidating, furiously angry Winchester towering over him. If he hadn't been too busy being in almost overwhelming pain, he would have definitely been scared.

"Here's the deal."

Oh, how the tables were turning. Only a day ago, Crowley had been the one in control, the one putting deals down on the table. Here he was, lying on the floor in agony, human and utterly vulnerable and being given an offer of a deal.

"I never see you again," Dean said with burning green eyes and a clenched jaw. "You never try to touch me or anyone I know. If I do see you again, or you mess with someone I know, I give you a one-way ticket to Hell."

Crowley was utterly failing in maintaining his poker face, concerned with concealing pain rather than emotional response. His expression was purely shocked as he stared up at Dean.

"...Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why- let me go?"

What a fucking stupid question, he lamented to himself. Let's poke the bear with a stick and see if he bites my head off. Great plan.

Dean almost looked like he was asking himself the same thing, really, which was hardly surprising but still a little unsettling. His jaw clenched further, and Crowley noticed for the first time the watery, bloodshot nature of the man's eyes.

"A bit 'cause you were the third trial, and I don't know if killing you will undo shutting down Hell," He began, eyes training not on Crowley but on the chains lying on the ground beside him. "A bit 'cause I'd like to think you might actually try to make up for what you've done. But mostly 'cause-" Dean took in a long breath, eyes shutting briefly and opening again. "'Cause I have bigger problems to deal with now, and killing you might get demons on my tail, and I have too many things to deal with without adding-" He gestured to Crowley. "-This to the mix. So I don't want to see you again, I don't want to even hear about you doing anything to anyone. And you get to leave here alive. We got a deal?"

It went against everything Crowley had ever said or done with the Winchesters before. But he wasn't that Crowley, not anymore. And so he nodded.

"Deal."

Dean surveyed him a second longer, before turning on his heel and striding away from him, to the doors of the derelict church. Crowley couldn't restrain himself this time, couldn't keep his emotions from overriding his mind.

"Are they alive?"

Dean stopped at the entrance. Turned his head back slightly.

"Who?"

Crowley sighed.

"Both of them. I saw the angels fall, and I saw you dragging Moose into the backseat. Are they both alive?"

From the tiny sliver of dawning sunlight falling on Dean's face, Crowley made out his expression softening- just slightly, only slightly.

"Yeah. They're alive."

And with that, Dean walked out of the church. A roar of engines came a half-minute later, and Crowley was left alone once more, lying on the floor of the church, half across the devil's trap.

A pause. A hiatus.

"Bloody hell," He murmured. He was free- and he didn't mean only from the devil's trap, although that was a bonus too, he had to admit. He was free from Hell, free from responsibilities; and most importantly, free from getting shot in the face by the damn Winchesters.

And then he remembered his promise to himself, made hours ago, when he was certain of his death coming.

He should go on holiday.

This new train of thought elicited a little chuckle from him, a smile crossing his lips for the first time in a long time. He should go on bloody _holiday._

But first, he thought as he shifted painfully on the ground, he should go to bloody hospital.

* * *

**A/N: Okay, so this fic here is my non-serious crackfic to allow me to wind down after writing my super serious other fic.**

** Although, in hindsight, as much as I wanted this opening to be realistic to the canon, it has sort of impacted on any available humour other than Crowley falling over. **

**I swear to god it will get funnier.**

**In any case. Because this is my non-serious crackfic, I only have a basic plot outline which I'm writing from, so- and here's the fun part, dear readers- you can feel free to tell me anywhere you might want Crowley to go as he sets off on his journey around the world. I have a fair few locations in mind, but I'm always happy to add more to the list and subject our favourite ex-King of Hell to more terrors.**

**Please review and tell me if anything is seriously wrong with my writing, if anything is seriously good, or you want Crowley to go to Disneyland or something. **


	2. In Which Crowley Gets A Car

Two weeks later, the late autumn weather had turned to the crisp chill of early winter, September giving way to October. And Crowley emerged from hospital, bruised and battered and with a fractured rib, but very much alive.

Over the past fortnight, Crowley had gotten used to a couple of things he hadn't had to do for centuries. Wait for wounds to heal, for one thing. Eat and drink for necessity, not just for pleasure.

And replacing his clothing instead of just snapping it fixed. That had really frustrated Crowley more than anything else. He got his clothes tailor-made at Savile Row since the unfortunate demise of his personal tailor; they were expensive, but Crowley knew the difference between off-the-shelf and bespoke, and felt the extra expense was more than worth it.

And damn it, it had been one of his _best suits_. Having to accept that having no demonic abilities meant that the ripped, bloodstained and crumpled suit and jacket was completely beyond help was a sort of wrench for him- he had added Savile Row to his mental holiday list as soon as he realised how much of a lost cause the poor ruined suit was.

Speaking of that mental holiday list, he had been compiling it since his newfound freedom began. As much as he had been stuck in hospital, with doctors and CAT scans and being poked in his bloody fractured rib for two weeks, his mind had been set on something else.

He had never really been one for settling down unless necessary, and at the moment, when he didn't know the demons or angels stuck down on Earth from the general public, he especially didn't want to try and hide out in a warded trailer like he had done last time he was trying to stay undiscovered (and besides, 'Godstiel' had found him anyway, so it hadn't exactly worked out as it was). Crowley knew that if Abbadon was still alive and on Earth (which would probably be a strong likelihood knowing his luck) then her first port of call would be to exact revenge for the guy who had been the door that shut Hell down, regardless of his willingness in being said door. Moving around was going to be paramount in ensuring his survival beyond the next few months.

Also, he _liked_ the idea of going on holiday. When Crowley had still been a demon, bereft of most emotional response and committed to the job of ruling the most chaotic workplace in the known universe, he had just accepted the strain of presiding over demonkind and went on without any sort of obvious stress to his daily life.  
Now he was human, his past experiences came flooding back to him with his new emotionally tinted hindsight- every memory had some sort of new response. Mostly guilt and fear.  
As a result, Crowley felt pretty stressed after a full two weeks of feeling- and he felt long overdue for a holiday, some R&R in his life. Maybe a drink. Maybe three.

So he had a plan.

Step One: Get below the radar. Crowley wanted to travel around in style, but that was hardly CCTV-free; to ensure he wasn't picked up by any angels or demons who had enough presence to check a hotel guestbook or a camera's files, he needed alibis, ID- and most importantly, someone on the inside to cover his tracks.  
He had the person on the inside. He just needed to make sure they covered his tracks.

Step Two: Get his assets and his property in order. He had money stashed in accounts everywhere in case of any emergency; he had warehouses everywhere, some for purpose, some for supernaturally related storage, most for Crowley's 'just in case' preporatory nature. He needed to secure everything he couldn't keep on him, and take what he needed as quickly as possible before anyone noticed his presence.

And then, when both of those criteria were over and done with, he could get on with 'Step 3': going on holiday.  
Step 3 was currently of indeterminate length, but Crowley had a lot of places to go, people to avoid, scotch to drink. He wasn't going to put a time limit on his little excursion. Since the "meteor showers" of two weeks ago had placed a lot of restrictions on airspace and put back a lot of flights, going international wasn't an option at the moment; Crowley was going to grab a car and head instead down to a location he had regrettably not spent enough time in before- Las Vegas.

Vegas had only ever really been a business place for Crowley in the past- back when he had only been a worker in Hell, not the leader, the ex-crossroads demon had spent more than his fair share of time in the city- beyond deals with financial and political bastions, making deals with rich people who wanted to cheat chance and get richer was the best sort of deal Crowley could make. He had thought anyone who sold their soul to make money at gambling were probably too stupid to even know how to gamble, but hey- they wanted to have an eternity in Hell in return for a little extra cash, that was their problem.

But now he was human and Earth-bound, he figured that Vegas could be a good place to start his little excursion- a whole city built for entertainment. Besides, the likelihood of running into any Earth-bound angels in the City of Sin was mercifully low- it was ideal.

But he couldn't get ahead of himself. One step after another.

Crowley stopped in the entrance of the hospital, thumb looped into the pocket of his new (and hopefully temporary) jean trousers as he fished an iPhone from his jacket pocket. It was the only thing he had with him still from his demonic past self- he had changed the '666' number sim card, though. A little too conspicuous at times such as these.

He tapped the keys, slowly, carefully, as if still considering whether or not to do what he was about to do. His thumb hovered pensively over the 'call' button for a few seconds, before he eventually sighed and tapped the button, holding it to his ear.

He didn't have to wait long for it to pick up.

"Cecily Hammond," A faintly frustrated voice sounded. Crowley didn't know whether to be relieved or worried she had picked up.

"Cecily, it's a pleasure to hear your dulcet tones once more," He intoned, trying to summon up his previous, ruler-of-hell personality. It was hard to do when wearing second-hand jeans and an AC/DC t-shirt.

"Crowley?" A surprised voice replied. "You've been up top all this time?"

He didn't have an opportunity to reply, as Cecily went straight into a shocked rant.

"It's been _chaos, _Crowley, where have you _been_?! Heaven and Hell are completely locked down, we have crazy angels and crazy demons doing _whatever they damn feel like doing_, and I'm not a warrior, Crowley, I'm here to look for marks for deals _we can no longer make_ because Hell is shut down and all I've been looking at now is angels and demons just _wantonly_ killing people and killing each other, you've been off the radar for a full _two weeks_, and now you just _call up_ and-"

"_Cecily_," Crowley growled out into the phone, irritation bleeding into his voice. "Listen to me."

The other end of the line went silent. Crowley went over his rehearsed lines. If she reacted differently to how he hoped, this could go very badly, very quickly.

"Are you in the NSA offices at the moment?"

"-Well, yeah, yes, I am."

She was still nervous around him. At least that counted in his favour.

"I'm at Sioux Falls Hospital in South Dakota. I'm looking at a CCTV camera right now. Say hi."

Silence over the line, punctuated by muffled tapping sounds of a keyboard. Then Cecily spoke again.

"What the hell are you _wearing_?"

Crowley looked down at his shabby attire, then back at the camera. "It's not exactly bespoke, I'll give you that."

"What are you even doing in that?"

Crowley gave her a look through the CCTV. A patient on a drip, smoking outside, gave an odd look to the British man giving evil eyes to a camera.

"Seriously though, Crowley."

He sighed faintly. "Remember our last bit of correspondance?"

"About the prophet? Sure."

"And about how the Winchesters were trying to shut down Hell with those little trials of theirs?"

"-Uh, yeah, course. I don't understa-"

"Of course you don't," Crowley said, still staring down the camera, a little of his old personality returning to him as he cut off his once-subordinate. "However, I got to know the full story first-hand. There were three trials to shutting down Hell. The first was killing my hound. The second, getting an innocent soul from Hell. The third-"

He paused. Now came the moment of reckoning. He needed her to view this like a businesswoman, not a demon.

"-Curing a demon."

The longest pause in time of Crowley's life. He continued staring down the camera, hoping his nervousness didn't show. Behind him, the smoking patient was giving Crowley the look one would give a deranged man.

"What." Cecily said with a pained tone.

"What?" He replied, attempting to feign nonchalance and failing.

"You're human."

"In a manner of speaking."

"I'm hanging up now."

"Well, you'll miss out on a lucrative deal, darling."

Silence on the line, but not a click.

"A deal? You want to make me a deal?"

Here goes with phase two of his rehearsed phone call. "You're cut off from Hell, Cecily, so now you have to make do with what power you currently have, what possessions you currently have," He rattled off, still staring into the CCTV. "And as much as the NSA is a safe enough position, an angry Knight of Hell crashing through your door isn't going to be stopped by the US government."

"...Okay, you have a point so far."

It worried him that she hadn't denied Abbadon was on Earth. She should know better than anyone whether Abbadon was around or not. That was concerning.

"I happen to have a lot of possessions in a lot of places, a lot of which are extremely valuable and powerful- a lot of which I liberated from Lucifer's crypts."

Now he had her attention. Any demon who knew the price of power wanted the possessions of Lucifer.

"Go on."

"I wouldn't divulge the whereabouts of these storage facilities under duress, you know I happen to be an expert in torture," Crowley said, hoping to all that was and wasn't holy she didn't call his bluff on that one. "But I'll be more than happy to, in return for a small favour, give you 25 percent of these warehouses, which include several of the Lucifer's crypt items."

A crackle of static.

"A favour?"

"I need IDs which can stand up to international scrutiny- passports, driving licenses, everything, in multiple and different sets," Crowley began. "A good quality car, a suit, and most importantly, you to cover my back over any demonic and angelic presence in my area. You keep an eye and a satellite on me- you see something supernatural, you're to give me a call immediately. You erase CCTV, you destroy any electronic fingerprint I make. That's the favour."

A longer crackle of static indicating silence. Crowley unconsciously fiddled with a loose thread of his AC/DC t-shirt.

"30 percent, and I get all of the Lucifer items from the other warehouses," Cecily said eventually.

Crowley gave the CCTV a sudden, shocked look.

"_30 percent_?!"

"You're asking a big favour."

"Those warehouses contain _countless _priceless goods!"

"And I want 30 percent of them."

"_And_ the Lucifer items?"

The smoker behind Crowley was on the edge of calling hospital security.

"It's a dangerous world out there."

Crowley pursed his lips.

"I better get a damn good car for this."

"We got a deal?"

He sighed.

"Yeah, we do."

Suddenly, a woman in a smart suit jacket and rectangular framed glasses materialised in front of Crowley, a PDA in her hand.

The smoking patient behind them paused his silent beration of the crazy British guy talking about demons and glaring at a CCTV camera. He slowly looked down at his cigarette, back up again at the woman that had appeared from nowhere, and slowly shuffled back to the hospital entrance, staring back at them and back at his cigarette periodically with an air of confused shock.

"So, let's get a list done up," She said brightly. "Where are those warehouses?"

* * *

Straightening the tie on a suit which was certainly not tailored, but still was far better than the AC/DC shirt, Crowley gave a little nod to Cecily, who cheerily waved her PDA before disappearing- probably to consolidate her new belongings, Crowley thought to himself with some lamentation for his lost possessions. Centuries to accumulate, one single deal to lose them.

He walked out into the hospital car park, still unsteady from his injuries but walking nevertheless. He had decided to leave it to Cecily to pick his new car- all he needed was something practical which wouldn't get noticed that much.

He found it soon enough- it had a small post-it note attached to the bonnet with his name on it. He didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

Deep, shiny black, a streamlined design, and yet as typically large as all American sedan cars were. Four-door, hardtop, brown leather seating, and a shiny golden cross for a badge at the front and back.

It was the Chevrolet Impala, the brand new 2014 model.

He debated whether or not Cecily was doing this to mess with him or simply didn't know the significance of this particular brand.

When he found the message on the back of the post-it, however, reading "Everything a hunter could need", he very much believed she was messing with him.

Oh well. At least she hadn't stabbed him in the face. That was a start.

He found the keys on the driver's seat, along with a small briefcase with a key already in the lock. Sliding into the car, briefly inspecting the interior, he turned his attention to the briefcase, opening it and pulling out documents.

Passports, several of them. A couple of driver's licenses. No credit cards, but he could get money from his bank account later. Car insurance, and- oh, thank you Cecily- amongst the pile of passports, American and British and multiple others, he found a stark black one, decorated with an eagle- 'Diplomatic Passport' was written at the top, 'United States of America' on the bottom.

Crowley grinned. He could definitely use that. Weapon carrying, free upgrades to first class; this could be useful.

He shoved the files back into the briefcase, locked it and put the key in his jacket, before putting the key in the ignition and firing up the engine.

A smooth purr, far less conspicious or loud than the screeching roar of the Winchesters' Impala. A number of dials were spurred into action, and the car moved with ease at Crowley's direction out of the car park.

Well. Maybe he could get used to driving an Impala.

Suddenly, classic rock began blaring from the stereo. He located the off button, jammed his finger against it. He may be driving an Impala, but he wasn't _that _much of a Winchester.

The stereo didn't turn off.

He pulled over, stared at the stereo. He noticed for the first time a small post-it note attached to the CD slot, bearing the same handwriting as Cecily's other post-it notes.

_You didn't call for 2 weeks. You get Winchester music for 2 weeks._

Crowley considered this for a few seconds. Then he slowly lowered his head onto his steering wheel, his Impala's car horn mingling with the sounds of AC/DC.

Fucking _demons._

* * *

**A/N: For anyone who may not remember the one-episode wonder that was Cecily, she turned up in 9x10. She worked for the NSA, looking for marks to coerce into deals in her spare time. She also was one of Crowley's best demons. I mean, she also worked for Abbadon, but then Abbadon stabbed her to death so I don't think they're really best buddies.**

**She's also a Castiel fangirl. Cecily's one of the most relatable demons there has ever been.**

**And yes, there is an Impala 2014 model. I like to think Dean regularly exorcises them under his breath when he passes them by.**


	3. In Which Crowley Goes To Vegas

Only a few hours later, Crowley had been driven to distraction by Metallica, AC/DC and other such bastions of classic rock playing on repeat. After having collected a few bits and pieces from one of his warehouses, he had set about carefully removing the stereo from the car, gently laying the still-playing device on the ground, and then shooting it until it was little more than a smoking, mangled box of metal.

He drove in silence for a few hours then, not entirely enjoying the experience but preferring it immensely to Winchester music. He allowed his mind to wander instead, back through centuries of experience and history.

He kept coming back to more recent events. Like blind-dating Jody Mills and then hexing her. Or killing the people the Winchesters had once saved in precise and formulaic order. Or stabbing Meg.

A couple of hours of thinking was leading him back to the same events- the ones that so recently had involved his torturing and killing many, many others.

He decided enough was enough when he felt himself begin to get teary-eyed. He needed distraction. Maybe not AC/DC, but certainly _something_.

He pulled in at the next station he came to. His car needed fuel, and he needed a new stereo. Preferably one that wasn't cursed to play classic rock.

As he filled up the car, his iPhone rang in his pocket.

_"I like big butts and I cannot-"_

Crowley promised himself he'd change his ringtone from 'Baby Got Back' at the next possible opportunity as he desperately fished his phone out of his pocket.

"Hello?" He said with a frown.

"Enjoying your in-flight entertainment?"

Crowley resisted the urge to yell at Cecily for the torturous music he had been forced to endure. He spoke as calmly as he could manage.

"Once I shot it to pieces, it was surprisingly enjoyable."

"Hey! I worked hard on that cursed stereo!"

"And as much as I appreciate your hard work, I appreciated it more with a few bullet holes."

"Anyway," Cecily said, "I didn't call for that."

"So what, pray tell, did you call for?"

"That gas station you're at?"

Crowley glanced at the CCTV camera hanging from one of the pumps. Sure enough, it was focused on him. "What about it?"

"Well, the cashier isn't so much human as a hot angel with a 'Steve' namebadge."

Crowley paused. He looked around. He could just about see the cashier in a blue outfit and with a mop of dark hair that could only belong to one angel in particular.

"..._Hot_?" He said derisively to Cecily. He could hear the admiration in her voice when she next spoke.

"Well, less hot now he's lost his wings, but just look at that _face_!" A muffled tapping on a keyboard was audible over the line. "Feathered Castiel may be better, but you can still admire him regardless."

Crowley paused. He took the phone away from his ear, glared at it for a good two seconds, and held it back to his ear.

"You could have told me this before I filled up my car with petrol. But you waited to call until I had already had to pay for the damn stuff to warn me."

"I, uh-"

"Cecily. Did you get too distracted staring at a certain grounded angel to call me?"

A long pause over the line.

"Don't make me curse your car speakers. They're still intact, you know."

He sighed. Getting a demon to be his person on the inside was a worse and worse decision every time he needed them to actually be helpful.

"Okay, alright, fine. You call me more quickly next time, don't just sit there admiring them."

"Sorry, Crowley, that's gonna cost you extra."

"Admire them a little bit less?"

"No can do."

"Can you at least get police off my tail if I make a getaway without paying?"

"That wouldn't be any fun."

"Fuck you." He retorted.

"That really _would_ cost you more. 'Steve' though- no charge."

Crowley groaned in frustration and hung up. Bloody demons. If they weren't busy being evil, they were staring at bloody Castiel. Just because the celestial dick had had the good fortune to pick a good-looking vessel to get stuck in.

He looked towards the cashier with a little apprehension. Castiel hadn't noticed him yet- he seemed to be drinking something out of a polystyrene cup. Crowley raised an eyebrow. He knew the angels were grounded, but he hadn't thought they had been grounded _that_ much.

As he reluctantly walked through the sliding doors, fiddling with his wallet nervously, Castiel looked up. Not for the first time in the last five minutes, Crowley was reminded of Dean's promise to shoot him to next Wednesday if he so much as looked at him or anyone he knew. Hopefully buying petrol from Castiel wouldn't count as an offence he'd get lynched for.

Castiel's expression went from curious to angry in a split second; Crowley felt his already-nervous emotional state take a hike up to actively terrified as he watched the wingless angel reach one hand inside his jacket, not taking his eye contact off of him. Crowley caught a flash of silver as Castiel began to retract his hand and move around the counter. Crowley anxiously half-raised his hands in surrender.

"Okay, let's not make a scene. I'm willing to bet you're not the only employee in the building, and they would probably be a little shocked to come out and see 'Steve' stabbing a customer to death," Crowley said, trying to remain as calm as possible and failing. After all, last time the two of them had met, Crowley had dragged a tablet through the guy's stomach. The odds that Castiel would just let that lie was pretty low.

Castiel paused, flicked his eyes to the back of the building swiftly, and stood up straighter, putting back the angel blade slowly but not taking his eyes off of Crowley.

"What do you want, Crowley?"

Crowley gave a little, nervous shrug, and waved his wallet in the air.

"Why else would someone be here?"

Castiel really looked suspicious now.

"Really."

Crowley gave a helpless look at the CCTV camera behind Castiel before refocusing on the angel.

"I mean, I was going to buy a stereo as well, but I think I'll buy that somewhere that doesn't have an angel trying to stab me in the face."

Castiel's face twisted uncomfortably at the word 'angel'- a motion that Crowley noted but was too focused on self-preservation to comment on. He shifted behind the counter.

"Why are you driving?"

Crowley lowered his hands from their 'surrender' pose, flicked open his wallet and carefully approached the counter, pulling a credit card. He had never really used one before, but he knew the basics.

"Squirrel hasn't told you?"

Castiel's face twisted uncomfortably again.

"We haven't had an opportunity for conversation recently."

Crowley was curious as to why, but he was treading on thin ice with the Winchesters just being in the same room as Squirrel's pseudo-boyfriend.

"Well," He said smoothly, putting in his credit card and keying in the pin code (with extra care to shield it from the CCTV), "When Moose shut down Hell, that third trial of his was to cure a demon." It was becoming easier to admit with each time he had to say he was no longer a demon- he didn't know if he should be relieved or terrified by that. He glanced up at Castiel as he pulled out his credit card. The angel looked faintly shocked; it was more emotion than Crowley was used to seeing on his once-business partner's face.

"You're human."

Crowley frowned slightly.

"That's all people seem to be capable of saying once I tell them."

Castiel gave him an incredulous stare and said nothing. Crowley fidgeted with his credit card in the silence.

"Oookay. Look, if you see Squirrel and tell him about this, can you tell him I said literally all I came in here for was to pay for petrol? I'm really not trying to get shot in the face here, I quite _like_ not being shot."

Crowley paused slightly longer, hoping Castiel would say something and not be so bloody awkward. The silence continued and Crowley slowly began half-backing towards the automatic doors.

"Crowley."

Oh, finally the guy speaks. Crowley turned around fully to observe Castiel in all his polyester-adorned glory.

"I too am human."

Crowley slowly adopted an incredulous expression that could rival the Moose's best expression work.

"What."

Castiel sighed slightly.

"I was the third trial to shut down Heaven. Taking an angel's grace."

Crowley's expression went from rivalling the Moose's expression work to beating it outright in terms of utter incredulousness.

"You're human."

"That's all people seem capable of saying."

Crowley snorted slightly.

"Wow. Small world."

"Actually, I think it's fairly large. Around seven thousand kilometers in diameter."

"-No, no, I meant that we're both here- in this room- as the third trials of each of the-"

Castiel wasn't getting it.

"-You know what, forget it, don't worry. See you around." Crowley could've sworn he heard 'See you around _where_?' as he walked out.

He shook his head slowly as he left. Seriously, either they were both victims of unbelievable probablity, or being around the Winchesters tended to just increase the odds of being used in some sort of supernatural ritual.

He got into the Impala and drove away with no small amount of speed- he reckoned Castiel would probably end up calling his love interest and gossiping about their little chat to him, so he wanted to put as much distance between them as possible before an angry hunter ended up tracking him down.

* * *

And so, for a few hours more in silent brooding over his past discrepancies, Crowley drove southeast to Arizona, the temperature gradually getting warmer and more arid. Eventually, the sky darkened, lights began to appear across the horizon, and a city swam into view, distracting Crowley from his thoughts and focusing him instead on his first holiday destination- Las Vegas.

The 'City of Sin' was a little contradictory, he supposed, to his new non-demonic state- but he was human now, not a bloody angel. He was allowed to gamble and drink if he liked, if not take people's souls and put them in a queue for all eternity.

Oh well. Drinking and gambling was probably less stressful on his new emotional state anyway.

He did sort of miss the vindictive glee of selecting a lift music playlist for the eternal queue of the damned, though.

He pulled the Impala (with a distinct sense of embarassment) into the car park for the hotel he had booked with one of his brand new fake identities. And he had decided he wasn't going to travel like the Winchesters- no, shit motels just weren't his style. He smiled to himself as he looked up at the (admittedly a little tacky) red lettering and golden laurels that signified the 5 star hotel and casino that was Caesar's Palace.

The lobby was unbelievably lavish, as suited the most expensive hotel in a city filled with expensive hotels. Patterned marble floors were dotted with mosaics depicting various Roman heroes and gods, the walls and ceilings similarly adorned. A central fountain in the low-ceilinged, circular lobby depicted three toga-wearing statues on top of shallow basins pouring water from one to the other. At the very end of the huge hotel lobby were the concierge desks, which Crowley made his way to, pulling behind him a slim suitcase he had found in one of his many warehouses.

A tired-looking woman gave him a smile as he made his way to the desk.

"Welcome to Caesar's Palace, may I help you?"

"Yes, I'd like to check into my room- the Palace Tower penthouse?"

She gave him a nod, turned to tap something into the computer before turning back.

"Mr Thorn?"

"That's right." It hadn't escaped his notice that all of his new identities had been given names that related to demonic characters in films. Just another thing to quietly curse Cecily for under his breath.

"If you'd just follow my colleague-" She gave a sharp look and a gesture to a young man half-asleep against the wall, who straightened with a guilty expression on his face and quickly took Crowley's bag, leading him to a lift.

The Palace Tower penthouse was actually one of many Palace Tower penthouses, but he had to admit, despite its being one of many, Room 217 was pretty damn impressive nevertheless. A spacious room, with polished granite surfaces and regal carpeting, with some fairly good views across the nighttime city.

He gave a fairly generous tip to the bellboy (hey, he didn't need someone spitting in his breakfast) and shut the door after him, revelling for the next few seconds in his new place to stay for the week. It was the first time he had been back in a place of luxury since his fall from (sort of) grace two weeks ago- and hospital beds had been distinctly unenjoyable.

He was going to unpack tomorrow- it was two in the morning, and nowadays he actually needed to sleep. He left his suitcase in the living area, walking into the bedroom.

He was only two seconds from flicking on the lights when he saw it.

The bathroom light was on, and emanating from the room was sound of a running tap and a television.

In the dark of the bedroom, Crowley frowned suspiciously. He crossed back to his suitcase as quietly as possible, softly unzipped the case and pulled out a gun. It was perhaps a little bit of overkill, but he had spent centuries with people trying to kill him. He wasn't going to drop his suspicions just because he was now human- if anything, he had all the more reason to be careful.

He walked back to the bedroom, gun by his side as he made his way to the bathroom. He raised a hand to the ajar door, then pushed it open, pointing the gun at the bath with reflexes he didn't think he had anymore.

And he saw something he hadn't been expecting.

"_Loki?_"

* * *

**A/N: I am inordinately proud that I made Crowley's room 217. It doesn't bode well for his luck in this room, really.**

**Once more, please tell me if anything's bad or good. Probably bad. **


	4. In Which Crowley Throws A Vase

The man sitting away from the door jolted to attention, wet blonde hair flipping rapidly as he shifted in the bathtub to face Crowley. A television installed above the bathtub continued to blare for a second longer, before spitting static and going silent without the pagan god so much as glancing towards it. Crowley knew Loki's tendencies towards people, so he immediately lowered the gun, although he certainly wasn't ruling out using it. Trickster gods were most usually only susceptible to wooden stakes, but Crowley was willing to bet that angel blade bullets wouldn't exactly be a walk in the park for the Norse god.

The blonde man paused, tilted his head slightly, then adopted the same mildly shocked expression as him.

"Crowley? The hell happened to you?"

Oh, he was not getting into this, not right now. He performed a cursory glance over the man, thanking whatever deity (well, Loki) that the over-the-top levels of bubble bath obscured anything not above the water.

"The hell are you doing in my hotel room?" He retorted, sweeping his hand that wasn't holding a gun across Loki's current position in his bathroom. "I thought, last we met, you were more a 'conjure up a hotel room filled with playboy bunnies in an alternate universe' man, not a 'hide out in a booked hotel room' man."

Loki looked almost hostile for a second (Crowley gripped his gun a little tighter), before groaning, setting his glass on the side of the bathtub, and standing up. Crowley rolled his eyes as a completely naked Loki took his merry time about actually finding a towel as he stepped out of the bathtub and pottered about the marble-facade bathroom. Crowley bit back a point about how Loki could literally just snap a towel into existence, because it was clear the only reason Loki wasn't just supernaturally drying himself and snapping clothes into existence was to piss Crowley off.

Eventually, Loki wrapped a towel around his waist and turned to face Crowley, facing off the once-demon with an expression of resignation.

"I'll talk if you do."

Crowley gave him a confused look.

"Excuse me?"

"You're not a demon anymore, Crowley. And I think that's going to be just as interesting a story to hear as why I'm 'hiding out in a booked hotel room.'" Loki made a show of using air quotations.

Crowley raised a hand to his face and dragged it across. Damn pagan gods, even they could sense energy signatures (or a newly re-found soul, in Crowley's case).

"Alright,_ fine_. I'll talk. But I'm heading to the bar first."

Loki waved a hand.

"Already cleared that. Let's head downstairs to the casino, get a few drinks, catch up."

Crowley stared at Loki in a state of confused shock.

"You already_ cleared the bar_? How much is in there?"

Loki looked amused. "It's only an in-room bar, it's only got ten bottles. And room service is all out now."

"So you've drunk ten bottles- and _everything_ room service had?"

"Correct. All in all, about... forty bottles of wine, a case or two of beer, and a couple of bottles of whisky and scotch, that shit you seem to love. Tastes disgusting, if you ask me."

Crowley looked to the ceiling. Fucking Norse gods. He didn't even look tipsy. He looked back at Loki helplessly.

"_Alright,_ okay. It's two in the bloody morning, but _fine._ But put some bloody clothes on first."

"Oh, Crowley, you _wound_ me. Like I've ever turned up to one of our meetings without clothes." Loki's smile turned from a slight, amused smirk to an all-out grin. Crowley shook his head, turned away to leave the room and go get his wallet.

"That was an important meeting, Loki. The apocalypse was starting, I needed your assistance. _Not_ a striptease."

"My clothes were _wet_! The Winchesters turned on sprinklers on me a few minutes beforehand!"

"That doesn't mean you strip!"

"Oh, come on, you loved it!"

"We were in the _Ritz_!"

"The waiters loved it too!"

Crowley was in the living area by now, shaking his head at the memory. That had been a meeting and a half, and an utterly useless one. Loki had told Crowley he had absolutely no intention to try and help him stop the apocalypse (still while completely naked), and then he had buggered off and left Crowley to wipe the minds of everyone too innocent to have seen the Norse god ripping off his clothes in the middle of one of the most expensive restaurants in London. The drinks hadn't been cheap, either.

The drinks hadn't been-

Crowley snapped to attention from where he had been loitering in the living area of the penthouse.

"_LOKI!_"

The pagan god's response was lazy and nonchalant despite Crowley's angry tone. "What?"

"You cleared out the bar _and_ room service?!"

Loki poked his head around the door as he towelled off his hair. "Yeah, why?"

Crowley regretted having put down the gun at this point in time.

"_On my room's tab?!"_

Loki's confused expression cleared, then changed to an overwhelmingly happy expression.

"Yup!"

His head retracted behind the door again before the aimed vase could collide with it.

"You _better_ pay for the drinks downstairs!"

Loki opened the door with a flourish, fully clothed for once, neatly stepping over the shards of porcelain on the floor.

"But of course, Crowley babe," He crooned with a wink. "When do I ever fuck people over on things like that?"

Crowley gave him a glare as the two of them walked to the door.

"I may not be a demon anymore, but I could still kick your arse."

"I'm terrified, mortal boy. What're you gonna do, call the police?"

"Call the NSA and get you barred from all the Vegas hotels, maybe."

"...Let's go to the bar."

* * *

"-And that's about it."

Loki gave a low whistle. Around the two of them, perched on their plush bar stools, the drunken gamblers of the late night stumbled across the casino, clutching the remains of their life savings in hand. A few frazzled waiters and waitresses continued to ply both free and expense-laden drinks to the packed casino behind them- even at two in the morning, Caesar's Palace was filled with people just lining up to bankrupt themselves. Crowley and Loki weren't here to gamble, however- at least, not yet. Crowley sipped at a rather expensive scotch and felt the alcohol burn down his throat as Loki took in his story.

"So Sam Winchester screwed you over," Loki summarised with a tilt of his head. "And both hell and heaven are shut down."

"That's about it, yes."

Loki looked pensive for a second, swirling the alcoholic contents of his glass.

"Know who shut down heaven? Why?"

Crowley raised an eyebrow at Loki's unusual question.

"No, but- why do you want to know?"

Loki drained his glass, signalled for the bartender to refill it. He turned back to Crowley, sighing heavily as his glass was poured full again.

"Guess it's my turn to tell my story, I suppose."

Wondering vaguely when his holiday had been turned into a sleepover truth-or-dare session in a casino bar, Crowley gestured openly for Loki to begin.

"So, former King of Hell. I know your spin on your own kind- well, the ones who used to be your own kind. But what's your opinion on the ones who made you?"

Crowley looked up from inspecting his own glass of scotch to give Loki an incredulous look.

"Is this relevant to anything, or are you just stalling for time on the story which involves you breaking into my hotel room and putting several thousands of dollars' worth of drinks on my bill?"

Loki waved a hand impatiently, and in a slightly uncoordinated fashion- Crowley wondered if all the alcohol the Norse god had been drinking was actually beginning to take effect. "It's part of the story. Seriously, Crowlster, what's your take on angels?"

"Crowlster?" He said with a raised eyebrow, before admitting to himself that he had created worse nicknames, and letting it slide. He sighed, putting down his glass and giving Loki his full attention.

"When it comes to my predecessor as Hell's ruler, I'm not exactly enamoured of him- I had a hand in getting him back in his cage, so I wouldn't call us best friends forever."

Loki shook his head rapidly.

"Not just Lucifer, angels as a whole."

Crowley exhaled in a tiny snort.

"Angels aren't, on a whole, great bedfellows. I've worked with a couple over the years- you probably don't know Castiel, but I'm sure you've heard of Raphael- and I've found them exceptionally tricksy. Angels only care about either furthering their own ambitions or furthering God's ambitions, and it's surprising how often the two coincide in their own heads. They're dangerous, and and they have no sense of humour or pop culture. Honestly, I can't tell you which is worse- that they keep trying to stab me in the face, or that they have no witty repartee to add while they do it."

Loki took this in for a second, before giving a shrug and a nod, draining his glass again before facing Crowley with a tiny, pained smile.

"So if I told you I was an angel, you'd be pissed, right?"

Crowley paused. Stared. Then decided to drain his own glass of scotch before looking Loki in the eye.

"You're joking. Tell me that's a joke."

Loki's eyes went from a golden hazel colour to bright, shining white, radiating power that even in his newly mortal form Crowley could sense and fear (and squint away from). Before anyone else in the bar could pick up on the sudden radiation of grace, Loki's eyes faded back to normal.

Crowley stared in shock. He made an aborted motion towards his glass, before realising it was empty. He gestured jerkily to the bartender, who duly came to refill it.

He turned to Loki the second the bartender had gone again. He collected up what was left of his dignity and courage and aimed it into looking the not-pagan in the eye and asking his next question.

"So have you always been an angel, or are you just taking control of a poor trickster god?"

Loki grinned, but it smacked of being false. "Always been an angel, Crowlster."

Crowley shook his head, trying to take in this information. An _angel_. Loki was a bloody _angel_.

"Would I know your name?" He asked eventually, reaching for his glass and sipping from it again in a desperate attempt to cling to something that was normal in this batshit crazy world.

"If you've heard of the name Gabriel."

Crowley immediately spit his scotch out of his mouth again. He stared into space for a few seconds, eyes unfocused. Then he looked up at his drinking partner.

"_Gabriel._"

"Uh-huh."

"As in, the archangel. Messenger of God. Bringer of truth."

"Also good at parties."

Crowley felt like he was involved in some sort of sick joke.

"You _stripped in the Ritz_ while I trash talked about your brothers trying to kill each other."

"They'd be proud of me, I'm sure."

Crowley shook his head slowly. A thousand and one questions floated to the fore of his mind- he voiced the most immediately relevant.

"Still doesn't explain what you're doing in my hotel room."

Gabriel looked like he had been slapped. "Really? I tell you that I'm an archangel who's been posing as a pagan god for millennia and all you can ask is _why I was in your hotel room_?"

Crowley shrugged. "It_ is_ a good question."

Gabriel shook his head and drained his glass again before facing Crowley. "Like you said, heaven's shut down, Crowlster; I don't have the power to spare anymore to just create my own little pocket universe." He gave a little sigh. "Besides, if all my siblings are down here now, it's probably worth keeping a low profile."

"I hear that." Crowley raised his own drink to his lips.

Gabriel snorted. "Yeah, all the topside demons are probably gonna kick your mortal ass if they see you."

Crowley, still in the middle of sipping his scotch, gave Gabriel a little glare (and when did his life become mildly threatening heaven's most dangerous beings?) before setting down his glass and looking him over again. The alcohol was affecting him far more than it had ever done before, but he was still used to his previously far higher alcohol tolerance, and he was trying to drink the same as he usually did. Gabriel swayed ever-so-slightly in his vision.

"So." Crowley decided, leaning back slightly and crossing his arms. "We're in Vegas. We're both shut off from home sweet home. You're sort of a trickster god and I'm pretty good at poker. I vote we go drink and gamble like it's the end of the world. Again."

Gabriel grinned. "Thought you'd never ask, Crowlster."

The archangel slapped down on the bar a few bills he produced from absolutely nowhere, before standing up and gesturing openly to the expanse of the Caesar's Palace casino. Crowley stood as well, walking in a slightly uncoordinated fashion behind the archangel as they made their way to the poker tables.

* * *

The rest of the night blurred together in Crowley's mind; only faint, vague images of card tables and glasses of champagne registered in his mind, a haze covering over the rest of the night. But four hours after he had left the Caesar's Palace bar, Crowley had passed out.

* * *

**A/N: I propose a drinking game- take a character and drink every time they do. Actually, no, don't do that, you'll probably end up dead. Fanfiction health and safety and all that. Pick a non-alcoholic alternative. Pray you end up with Crowley and not Gabriel. And especially not the character arriving next chapter.**

**Next chapter, I get the holiday and the main plot into action by shamelessly borrowing from Jon Lucas and Scott Moore's brainchild. Then, having never actually seen said brainchild, I not-so-shamelessly ruin it.  
**


	5. In Which Crowley Destroys Vegas

Sleep isn't at all like how it's portrayed in films. It's not a long descent into unconsciousness and a long ascent awake- it's a long descent followed by a very abrupt vertical drop into unconciousness, and waking up is the same.

So Crowley suddenly found himself to be conscious and aware, eyes opening slowly as his mind began to process where he was and how he was feeling.

And after a few seconds of processing, he had decided the floor he was spread-eagled across was incredibly uncomfortable.

And he had a headache. Crowley moaned weakly, dragging an arm across his face and shutting his eyes against the light. When had he last had a hangover? Four centuries ago? He had forgotten after years of drinking with no effect that the consequences the morning after were unpleasant.

He slowly began to think over the events that had lead him to his position on the floor.

He was absolutely horrified to discover that he couldn't remember a thing.

He slowly sat up, still clutching his head in a vain attempt to assuage the pain. He couldn't remember anything about the previous night. He had...yes, he had gone in the hotel room, and Loki had been in his bath, and then Loki turned out to be Not-Loki-Gabriel, and then-

Nothing. He tried to think back to the previous night beyond the Caesar's Palace casino bar, but only a few flashes of vague memories came up, flashes he couldn't make any sense of.

He began to realise past the haze of his hangover that on top of not knowing what he had done, he didn't know where he was.

He opened his eyes again, squinting against the sudden light. The sun had risen a long time ago, and light was filtering in through opulent, drawn curtains. A well-furnished room lay around Crowley, with a soft (but not bloody soft enough) carpet beneath him. He slowly registered it as a hotel room- perhaps his, perhaps not.

He was struggling to decide if it was his or not mostly because of the fact that since he had been unconscious the entire room seemed to have been remodelled.

Well, when he said 'remodelled'.

The previously pristine white carpet was now covered in bottles, pizza boxes, takeaway, and what he really hoped were stains from upturned bottles. Anything that counted as furniture was either upturned, broken, or both- a flatscreen television lay in pieces in one corner of the room, while an attractive mahogany table was now standing with its legs in the air, a pile of bottles on top of it. There were poker chips strewn across the room in numbers enough to in places cover the entire floor. There was a fairly large statue in the centre of the room that looked like it had been ripped from an emplacement. And a goat.

Crowley had to blink a few times when he noticed the goat lying placidly in the centre of the destruction. He stared at the goat. The goat stared at him.

Crowley got the feeling that something very bad had happened.

And that's when he heard him.

"Wakey wakey, sleeping beauty."

Crowley whipped his head around in shock and quickly regretted it, clutching his head and hissing in pain. He glanced upwards to the standing figure, expecting it to be an irate hotel manager, or Gabriel if he hadn't already pissed off and left him to deal with the scenes of destruction around him.

It was neither.

A man with tanned skin and curly black hair stood against the statue in the centre where he had been absolutely sure there had been no-one before, sipping at a glass filled with some sort of amber liquid. If he had been more lucid, Crowley might have recognised the similarities between the statue and the man leaning against it, but he was hungover and he had only just woken up and he had no idea what was going on.

The man snorted, appraising Crowley over his glass. "I've seen some wild nights in my time," He said, his voice intoned with an accent Crowley couldn't place, "But that must have been-" The man made a wide gesture across the room with one hand, smile wide. "-Spectacular!"

Crowley paused. Considered the stranger in front of him.

"What?" He managed, his voice hoarse.

The stranger stopped leaning against the statue, started walking across the hotel room with a spring in his step.

"Oh, why I'm here, yes. I probably shouldn't be. I mean, you didn't really complete your little offering to me, but before you broke down crying trying to sacrifice the goat, you had done everything right!"

Crowley pulled his hand over his face again, blocking out the light and amused expression of the stranger. He took in this new information slowly.

"Offering."

"Yeah, to me! A nice thought, nobody does it anymore," He mused, emptying his glass and turning back to face the statue head-on, facing up to the carved stone at least three feet taller than him. He adopted the same pose as the statue, one hand raised to the sky, one hand swept behind him. Still maintaining the arm positions, he pivoted to face Crowley.

"What do you think? Is there a resemblance?"

The statue was him? Crowley frowned at first the man and then the statue behind him, eyes narrowed at the stylistic title on the stone slab beneath it. It was in Greek, but Crowley knew a fair number of languages.

And he stalled.

At once the identity of the man explained a lot and didn't explain enough.

"Put on a bit of weight since then, Dionysus, but otherwise it's a good likeness."

Dionysus dropped the pose, narrowed his eyes.

"Hey, you want me to make your hangover worse?"

"Do you even know who I am?" Crowley managed, slowly standing up to face off Dionysus.

He pretended to be in thought, surveying Crowley over an empty glass while lazily waving his hand to refill it. "Hm... A foolish mortal who needs to watch his mouth while in the presence of a god?" He said, his eyes flashing with something vaguely predatory. Crowley made a show of rolling his eyes.

"Hm, maybe the former leader of Hell who most certainly does not need to watch his mouth, thanks," He retorted, wondering if those words were going to be his epitaph.

Dionysus stepped back slightly, curiously surveying Crowley again.

"Which leader of which Hell?" He finally asked, sloshing his drink around in his glass before draining it again. "There's a lot going around recently."

Crowley gave him a tiny grin. "You could call me Crowley."

Dionysus suddenly looked shocked and faintly incredulous. "You're Crowley? The rebel King of the Judeo-Christian Hell?"

Crowley gave a mock bow, which only furthered his headache. "The one and only."

Dionysus refilled and drained his drink again. "Didn't that Hell just get shut down?"

"And don't I know it," Crowley replied with a shake of his head. "Honestly, mortals these days. You spend years rebelling against Lucifer and his acolytes to finally get in power, and in one fell swoop two bloody hunters shut down the place and make you human. I mean, do they know how long it took to remodel the place? Getting all the bloodstains painted over was a pain in the arse!"

Dionysus snorted again and turned away from Crowley, parading around the room like it wasn't carpeted with poker chips and bottles. Finally, through the haze of his headache, Crowley realised something he really should have thought about earlier.

"Where's Loki?" He asked with a frown. He meant Gabriel, but he had decided that Dionysus probably didn't know that, given that Crowley had only just discovered that himself.

"Lo-" Dionysus spun around. "Loki? What do you mean 'where's Loki?' Loki's dead, your ex-ruler of Hell killed him! Everyone knows that!"

Crowley didn't. He vaguely went back to what he had last heard over the pagan god grapevine- and oh, shit, yes, Lucifer _had_ massacred a lot of gods a couple years back. He hadn't realised that Gabriel-Loki had been in that mess- but that made an awful lot of sense, in hindsight. Of course, it didn't help him knowing this now that Dionysus was giving him that look.

"Well," Crowley said painfully, "He wasn't. And we were out drinking last night. And now he's disappeared."

Dionysus' face was turning a strange shade of purple. "That _fucker!" _He growled, smashing his glass with his fingers and then immediately conjuring up another. "I thought he was dead for _years_ and he's off partying with ex-demons?!"

Crowley gave a little shrug. "So I guess you don't know where he is, that's fine, I'll just be-"

"_Oh no you don't!" _Dionysus grabbed Crowley from the lapels of his shirt as he attempted to turn and leave. "You may have been King of Hell, but now you're human, and you're going to help me find Loki because I need to punch him in the face and then _we have some partying to catch up with_!"

Crowley felt unbelievably vulnerable. He really didn't want to have survived countless horrors to just be killed by an irate Greek god of wine because he'd have to tell him-

"Sorry, mate, but I wouldn't be able to help- I can't remember a thing about last night."

Dionysus groaned theatrically, releasing Crowley and stalking around the room. Crowley started to dust himself off, then as he looked down at himself discovered something he hadn't known before.

His shirt was missing.

So were his trousers.

_What the hell had happened last night?_

Dionysus spun suddenly, gripped Crowley's arm and began staring into his eyes. Crowley leant back uncomfortably.

"Yeah?"

"So you don't remember anything?"

Crowley raised an eyebrow. "No."

"Flashes of memory, stuff you can't make sense of? Have you any of that?"

Crowley raised both eyebrows. "Yes?"

Dionysus smirked. "Perfect. You're gonna remember _something_ if we just backtrack from when you summoned me two hours ago."

Crowley felt sick. It was the middle of the day and he had only finished his little party two hours ago?

Dionysus leant back, clapping his hands. "Okay! So! Time for my favourite after-party game- find the missing pagan god! Loki's always drinking more than he can handle and passing out somewhere nearby, so he's probably still somewhere in Vegas- time to search for him!" He leant down and picked up one of the many poker chips. "And here's our first clue for the day-" Dionysus tilted the poker chip in his hand. "-Yep, Caesar's Palace poker chips!" He flicked it at Crowley, who caught it and studied the chariot and text engraved in the centre of the plastic chip. He looked up at Dionysus.

"So look there first?"

"We'll probably get us a good idea of where Loki's gone, if he's not still there- it's downstairs, let's go!" Dionysus made a move for the door.

"Wait! I'm only half-dressed!"

Dionysus turned back, gave Crowley an overly long appraising look and a lazy smile.

"And?"

Crowley glared at him. "I'm not helping you like this."

Dionysus sighed, rolled his eyes, and waved a hand lazily. Crowley immediately found himself back in a shirt and, more importantly, trousers. The god was already leaving. Crowley considered whether to follow or not. After all, he had to clean up, remove the makeshift altar to Dionysus (_and where had he even gotten the statue and the goat anyway?), _and get out of Vegas before anyone from the hotel management noticed the thousands of poker chips lining his floor which he was damn sure weren't here legally.

But on the other hand, he was curious to see what happened the previous night. Also, he really didn't want Dionysus to repeat mythology and turn him into a dolphin or something. He liked opposable thumbs.

So slowly, tiredly, head still pounding and feeling slightly nauseous, Crowley followed behind the Greek god, leaving a scene of carnage behind him.

* * *

As he trudged behind Dionysus into the hotel lobby, the god slowed to walk alongside him, still liberally drinking from an ever-refilling glass that nobody in the lobby seemed to be noticing.

"So, leaving aside the fact that I seem to be the only one who didn't know Loki was dead, why is the Norse god of mischief partying with an ex-demon who is referred to by everyone as the 'ultimate bureaucrat'?"

Crowley couldn't help but give a tiny smile at that. "Ultimate bureaucrat? Now that's a title I can accept readily." He shrugged slightly as he answered Dionysus' question. "But as to why I was having a little party with Loki- well, we're ex-business partners, and we bumped into each other in the hotel."

It wasn't untruthful, even if it left out the fact that Loki had in fact turned out to be Gabriel. And they had been business partners of a sort- the two had previously had an arrangement over avoiding one another's objects of torment. Loki got his victim of karmic recompense, and Crowley had his deal clients untampered with. It worked out well enough, and Loki had always seemed, if somewhat temperamental, an interesting enough person to associate with. And have contests with. The winner got the dealing or victimisation rights over a celebrity.

Crowley maintained that securing a certain Canadian pop star over Loki was still his finest work.

Dionysus smirked, shook his head, drained his drink then refilled it. Then he seemed to come across a new train of thought as swiftly as the last had left.

"So, former King of Hell," Dionysus drawled, casually flipping off the statue of Bacchus in the lobby as they passed it, "How are you handling your new humanity?"

Crowley shifted slightly to a more defensive tone in his voice. "Why do you care?"

"Well, you only stopped crying a few hours ago- clearly there are more funny stories on the subject."

He didn't remember crying, but it sounded, given his sickening behaviour since he had lost his demonic apathy, completely plausible. Crowley gave this question a second's thought before decidedly sticking two fingers up at Dionysus. A group of gaudily dressed American tourists gasped and put their hands over their children's eyes- Crowley would have felt guilty if he didn't feel so hungover. Dionysus just laughed and ignored the tourists with an air of utter indifference to their existence.

As they crossed the lobby and came to the casino, immediately it was apparent something was wrong. Crowley hadn't noticed the near-silence in the hotel lobby, but he noticed it now that the noise from the casino became more obvious.

And then they rounded a corner, and the poker tables came into view, and both god and former demon stopped still and stared.

Half the poker tables were snapped in half or scorched, shards of wood littering the glass with abandon. A few poker chips scattered the ground in a thin trail towards the entrance- Crowley thought back to the new carpet of poker chips in his hotel room and became horribly aware of how this was almost certainly his and Gabriel's doing. The statue in the centre, with a plinth announcing it to be Fortuna, the Roman goddess of luck, had been partially destroyed, one stone arm lying shattered on the ground. Spray paint covered the rest of it, with red enochian scrawling declaring that "Angels+Demons rule ok" and that "Fortuna fucked Servius Tullus pass it on!"

Crowley was ashamed to recognise that the second one was written in his own handwriting.

Casino staff and police were trawling the area, some crowded behind a bank of computers which seemed to be the CCTV control point. A couple of police were interviewing a very shaken-looking card dealer, who was pointing wildly to the tables and then the walls and then the scorch marks with a rapidity that almost made her arms blur.

Crowley groaned and rubbed a hand across his face. Fantastic. _Fantastic. _A single day into his holiday, and he had already decidedly ruined it. He had gone drinking with an archangel- and since when had that _ever_ been a good idea to do? Crowley glimpsed between his fingers a trail of $100 poker chips lying on the floor, and closed his fingers again, blocking out the light. He had gone drinking with an archangel- one of the most _powerful beings on Earth_- and now he had drunkenly summoned a fucking _god _who he was now _lying to _about 'Loki's' identity, and he was weaponless and powerless and he had _just wanted a bloody holiday._

Dionysus didn't seem to share Crowley's sense of injustice and loss of dignity. If anything, he looked ecstatic.

"I _knew_ waiting around after you summoned me was a good idea!" He gestured openly at the partially destroyed casino with a look of excitement. "Most people who summon me are either mad or boring- but _this!_" He swept one hand across the scene, a newly-manifested glass of wine in his hand sloshing from side to side as he gesticulated wildly. "I had always heard that the King of Hell was a bureaucrat who wouldn't know fun if it hit him with a stick, but clearly I have heard wrong!"

He continued to gabble and gesticulate, strolling through the casino like it wasn't partially burnt down. Crowley remained where he was, head in his hands and quietly ignoring the multitudes of people around him. He needed to figure out a plan, and fast, before he got arrested. He peeked through his fingers at the casino. Dionysus was observing the vandalised statue in the centre of the room, still talking to himself and drinking like there was no tomorrow; the casino staff and police were all too busy with CCTV and cleaning up the floor to notice his presence. He straightened, ignoring his pounding head or nauseous feeling, and took calm strides out of the casino, trying to act as if he was still the King of Hell, and not a hungover human with a missing angel problem.

Entering the lobby, Crowley sat down on one of the many luxurious guest chairs in the tiled room, trying to place himself as far away from the casino (and Dionysus) as possible. He fished through the pockets of his suit jacket, pulling out his phone. The screen was cracked, to his horror- he traced a finger over the once-smooth surface of his iPhone with a distressed expression on his face. It was the last thing he really had left from his demonic past- and as much as he now wanted to distance himself from the demon that had once been him, he still felt desperate to keep at least part of his kingdom to hand. He had lost so much in the past two weeks- he didn't want to lose this, too.

He clicked the power button with a sense of trepidation- he was met with a mixture of relief and amusement as his lock screen flashed up. He had almost forgotten what wallpaper he set. He swiped his thumb across the partially cracked screen and tapped in his password, and the photo of Bobby and himself disappeared.

To be replaced by a swathe of notifications.

He frowned, flicking through the apps with a renewed sense of trepidation. Hundreds of texts. Hundreds of them. How the hell had he set a casino on fire, escaped, _and _have solicited thousands of texts?

He was disturbed to see that not only had he messages from 'Cecily', he also had messages from 'Moose' and 'Not Moose. He tapped Cecily first, feeling more than a little worried at the premise of having to read the texts from the Winchesters.

_'Answer my calls. That guy's not human.'_

_'Stop drinking with him, he's going to outdrink you then mug you/kill you. It'll be funny, but I have more stuff to extort from you before then.'_

_'HWAT THEFUKC'_

_'IS HE AN ANGEL'_

_'HIS EYES JUST WENT WHITE ARE YOU INSANE STOP DRINKING WITH HIM'_

_'HE'S NOT EVEN AS HOT AS CASTIEL WHY BOTHER'_

_'DONT PLAY POKER WITH HIM'_

_'NO WAIT THIS IS BRILLIANT CONTINUE PLAYING POKER WITH HIM'_

_'OH MY LUCIFER ARE YOU CRYING'_

_'DID YOU JUST BEAT HIM AT POKER'_

_'DID HE JUST SET A POKER TABLE ON FIRE'_

_'WHY DID YOU BEAT HIM AT POKER CROWLEY HE'S JUST SET SIX TABLES ON FIRE AND THE CCTV IS STARTING TO BURN UP'_

_'I CAN'T SEE YOU I'M GOING TO HAVE TO FIND SOMETHING ELSE TO WATCH FUCK YOU'_

A gap of two hours and a new swathe of texts.

_'HEY THERE YOU ARE GOING SHOPPING'_

_'ARE YOU STILL CRYING'_

_'WHO IS THIS ANGEL GUY AND WHY IS HE NOW WEARING A HAWAIIAN SHIRT'_

And then a text from him. He winced.

_'OHhmyhgodgetofmycasehesaFRIENdokayYOLOYOLO'_

Crowley made a mental note to turn off his phone in the future before he went drinking.

_'Crowley, YOLO cannot be used for setting a casino on fire with an angel'_

_'youdnotlviemyliffe'_

_'What?'_

The texts continued in a similar fashion, with Cecily stopping her commentary of events to instead try and elicit more drunken texts from him. Crowley scrolled quickly to the bottom, where a text from him that had just been 'YOLO' written a couple dozen times had been ignored. He guessed Cecily got bored and went off to watch Castiel undress or something like the creepy Big Brother figure she was. He quickly tapped in a text and sent it off.

_'Can't remember anything from last night. After we set the casino on fire where did the angel go?'_

Then he backtracked to go check the other texts. With a creeping sense of trepidation, he tapped 'Moose'.

The first text was from Sam.

_'Stop calling me.'_

The only response to this text was a selfie of Gabriel and himself in a shop somewhere. Gabriel was in a hawaiian shirt and was wearing a fake moustache. Crowley was wearing a sombrero. Neither of them looked at all sober.

_'Stop texting me'_

_'SELFIE FOR SELFIE'_

_'Fuck off Crowley'_

_'sELFIE 4 SELFIE'_

The barrage of texts from him to Sam got less and less legible, but still they didn't stop. Until eventually there was a response from Sam.

_'If I post a selfie will you stop'_

_'ye'_

The next picture was of a haggard-looking man in a hospital bed, eyebrow raised and a half-smile on his face as he posed for the camera. Unmistakeably Moose, even if he did look a little worse for wear.

Then a new text from him.

_'Gabes sending you a hat'_

_'What'_

_'HE SENT YOU THE HAT SELFIE AND ILL STP TXTTING'_

And then a new picture from Sam. He was wearing Crowley's sombrero. He looked a mix of surprised, amused and terrified.

_'Stop sending me hats and fuck off before I call Dean.'_

_'luv u'_

And there the texts stopped. Crowley felt embarassed. Also terrified. The next texts were from Dean. Had Gabriel stopped sending hats through the aether through unknown means, or was he going to be hunted down by Dean Winchester tonight?

_Wow,_ he thought. _My life has gotten really fucking surreal._

He tapped 'Not Moose'.

He wasn't really surprised, although he was more than a little bit terrified.

_'ANSWER MY CALLS'_

_'I FUCKING WARNED YOU CROWLEY'_

_'DONT FUCKING GO NEAR US'_

_'THAT INCLUDES THE HAT THING'_

_'I MEAN I DONT KNOW WHY YOU WERE SENDING SAM HATS'_

_'BUT IT COUNTS'_

No further texts. Crowley winced. Sent off a text to Dean slowly, hands shaking infinitesimally, his head pounding even more badly than before.

_'If I said I was sorry and explained it was actually Gabriel and that I was drunk and it will never happen again, would you forgive me?'_

The response was almost instantaneous.

_'NO'_

Well, he was being hunted down by Dean Winchester. He was dead, then.

A new text pinged up from Cecily. Head still swimming from a night's alcoholism and the new revelation that Dean Winchester was coming to find him, he tapped it.

_'Wakey wakey, sunshine! You're my new fave thing to watch, besides hot wings. If you want information about where you and angel boy went, I want information too.'_

_'What?' _He texted back. The response was almost immediate.

_'Who was angel boy? My files say he's Loki but I'm obvs wrong'_

He winced. On the one hand, he didn't want to sell out the archangel Gabriel to a demon. On the other hand, he needed to find Gabriel so Dionysus would let him go so he could run away as fast as possible from Dean Winchester.

The decision didn't take long. He was human now, but he wasn't _that _loyal.

_'Gabriel'_

_'THE Gabriel?'_

_'Cecily I swear to Lucifer YES THAT GABRIEL WHERE DID WE GO'_

_'Keep your hair on, there isn't much left of it'_

_'CECILY'_

_'You went to the Forum Shops'_

Crowley stood up. Now he had a plan.

One-Find Gabriel.

Two-Lose Dionysus.

Three-Run away from Dean Winchester.

Easy, three step plan. He could manage this. He was hungover and human, but he was _Crowley. _There was nothing he couldn't handle.

Then his phone pinged again.

_'Oh, and Crowley?'_

His newfound determination started to ebb at the text.

_'What?'_

_'I don't know if you remember, but you might have pissed off Abaddon when you summoned her and 'Gabriel' turned her into a goat.'_

What. _What._

Crowley's hazy mind flashed back to the hotel room he had woken up in this morning. There had been a goat. He had attempted to sacrifice it to Dionysus. Oh he was so fucked.

His phone pinged again.

_'She's still currently a goat, but judging by CCTV the transformation's wearing off and she's trotting her way to the lobby. Have a great day.'_

He paused. Tucked his phone in his jacket. Took a deep breath.

New plan.

One- Find Gabriel.

Two- Lose Dionysus.

Three- Run away from Dean Winchester _and _Abaddon.

_He was so fucked._

* * *

**If there is one thing I regret in life, it is this chapter. I really dislike it. But I'm ill, and it's already longer than I wanted it to be, and I can't keep looking at it or I'm going to cry.**

**Next chapter, sombreros, Abaddon, Gabriel, and Dean Winchester. Also ducks.**


End file.
